Finding John Rae

by Alice Jane Hamilton

  Suddenly I sat bolt upright in bed as my mind cleared and it struck me that this would be no ordinary day. Far from it. While London slept under a blanket of mist and darkness, the Times was busy printing copies of the morning paper containing the gruesome news about Sir John Franklin and his men. It was certain that other newspapers would be following suit, so the story would soon — if not already — be circulating throughout the city and beyond.

  I washed at the nightstand and dressed for the day. A maid knocked at the door and set a breakfast tray on the table, along with the morning edition of the Times. I turned the paper face down, not wishing to see the news before I had consumed at least some of the meal. I managed to get through a cup of tea, a boiled egg and half a sausage before curiosity got the better of me. I took a deep breath and flipped the paper over.

  As usual, the first several pages of the Times were crowded with notices, advertisements, excerpts from speeches, financial information, and so on. I slowly turned over pages one, two, three, four and five, then page six. There was nothing of note on any of them. I gingerly turned another page and there it was, occupying two half-columns in the uppermost section of page seven:

  THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION

  Intelligence which may be fairly considered decisive has at last reached this country of the sad fate of Sir John Franklin and his brave companions.

  Dr. Rae, whose previous exploits as an Arctic Traveller have already so highly distinguished him, landed at Deal yesterday, and immediately proceeded to the Admiralty, and laid before Sir James Graham the melancholy evidence on which his report is founded.

  I was relieved to see that the tone of the article was dry and neutral, which gave me some hope that the Arctic Council members had further discussed the matter, considered my argument against publication and made an effort to tone down the grim elements of the story. I read on.

  Dr. Rae was not employed in searching for John Franklin, but in completing his survey of the coast of the Boothia Peninsula.

  He justly thought, however, that the information he had obtained greatly outweighed the importance of the survey, and he has hurried home to satisfy the “public anxiety” as to the fate of the long-lost expedition, and to prevent the risk of the loss of further life.

  So far, this is quite satisfactory, I thought. When I read more, however, a jolt of disappointment ran through me. The newspaper had inserted a direct quotation from my private report.

  From the mutilated contents of the kettles, it is evident that our wretched countrymen had been driven to the last recourse — cannibalism — as a means of prolonging existence.

  The Times added that according to my report, some of the corpses

  had been sadly mutilated, and had been stripped by those who had the misery to survive them, and who were wrapped in two or three suits of clothes.

  The word “cannibalism” leapt off the page and my heart sank. My private report had indeed been published in the most widely read newspaper in Britain. The article went on to quote from my writing that a few of the unfortunate men must have survived until just after the arrival of migrating wild fowl, probably around the end of May 1850.

  I covered the breakfast meal with a napkin and left the hotel clutching the heavy satchel containing the relics in one hand and an umbrella in the other, my footsteps quickening as I dashed past screeching newspaper boys frantically waving copies of the morning paper above their heads. I threaded my way through a maze of umbrella-covered pedestrians, and blinkered, high-stepping horses splashing through puddles, pulling carriages filled with all manner of humans and cargo. The odours of the city seemed stronger, rendered particularly foul by the dampness. I felt oddly exposed and threatened, despite the fact that I was just another body among hundreds of people who were busily going about their weekday lives.

  I made my way to Hudson Bay House, the home of the Company’s headquarters in Fenchurch Street, in search of my employer, Sir George Simpson. Along with yesterday’s absence of Sir John Richardson at Admiralty House, that of Sir George had caught me by surprise. I thought the Company’s governor, with whom I had been well acquainted for more than twenty years, and who had been actively involved in the matter of finding the missing expedition, would surely have been in attendance if he had any notion of what awaited me in that council meeting room. I had sent him a copy of my private report. Was he not invited to the meeting? Perhaps he, too, had no idea that the cannibalism testimony had been placed in the hands of the press.

  I rushed inside the office in Fenchurch clutching the satchel, and inquired if the governor was present. My question — indeed, my very presence in the reception area — seemed to cause some measure of discomfort among the clerks, and of course, I understood why. They would have been aware of the morning’s news about the fate of Sir John Franklin and his men. Sir George came out of his office. I must say that he was a welcome sight. I had not seen him in three years. He had lost more hair and his bushy sideburns had changed from silvery grey to white, but in his sixties he still looked strong and physically fit. We shook hands and he led me into his office. I noticed that a copy of the Times was lying on his desk, open at page 7.

  “It is good to see you, my boy.” He had always called me “my boy,” which I did not mind at all, since he was some twenty-five years my senior, and he had been my mentor ever since I was hired by the Hudson’s Bay Company at the tender age of twenty. He had taken me under his wing when I first arrived in the Arctic, probably because I reminded him of his younger self: curious, adventurous and strong. My own father passed away a year later, and I suppose Sir George became a sort of father substitute for me when I was so young and far away from my family.

  Many people did not care for him, though. He was known to be impatient, arrogant, dictatorial and sharp of tongue. He was, however, an astute man of enterprise, and he was well respected for that. There had been times when I was angry with Sir George for expecting too much of me after I was appointed chief factor for the Mackenzie River District. Occasionally, when I was exhausted and in need of respite, I wrote to him and asked for periods of leave to return home and rest. He had ignored those letters altogether. Despite my grievances concerning his lack of sympathy for others, I admired his wit and business sense. When we spent time together, I enjoyed his company.

  We sat down and, at Sir George’s request, I laid out the artifacts upon the vast surface of his polished ebony desk. He examined them with great interest, picking up pieces of broken watches, compasses, silverware, and so on.

  “This collection is quite astonishing, isn’t it, John?” He weighed the silver plate in both hands, looked closely at the assorted sets of initials on the smaller items through a magnifying glass, felt the gold braid between his fingers.

  I nodded. “The remaining objects will be delivered to you, Sir George, so your staff can go about the task of recording them in a Company catalogue, and return the appropriate pieces to the owners’ families. With your approval, however, I would like to keep some of the broken instruments and a few pieces of cutlery for my own interest.”

  “I think you have earned that privilege.” He sat back in his chair and looked at me. “John, I know you well enough to respect your painstaking work in interviewing and cross-examining the Esquimaux. I have no doubt concerning the veracity of the information you have obtained.”

  I described the lengthy and melancholy task of recording the evidence about the starving men’s demise and its aftermath. George Simpson and I were like-minded on the subject of the natives in that polar region: they were not given to violence against others. He was personally familiar with Esquimaux traditions of record-keeping and sharing information with others. He also understood why the natives would have been fearful of the strange white men, marching in grim processions towards their own deaths. It was a relief for me to discuss the situation with someone who had personal experience with the Esquimaux — a man with authority — thus lending credence to my account.

  Sir
George said it was most unfortunate, but he was not surprised to learn that I had been treated poorly during the meetings at Admiralty House. He told me that I had provided far more information than anyone in the British government wanted to hear. Despite his own requests for an audience, no member of the Arctic Council was willing to discuss the report with him and no, he was not invited to yesterday’s meeting.

  “I expect they all knew I would support you and accept the testimony, my boy,” he said. “It’s easier to ignore one voice than two.” Then he rubbed his hands together and leaned forward. Observing these gestures, I knew a question was coming.

  “John, I understand that this is a difficult time for you, but I must ask you something important. Why did you include the story of cannibalism in your report to the Admiralty? Would it not have been better if it had never been mentioned at all?” He held up his hands. “I confess that I am quite curious about that.”

  It was a reasonable question, and I thought carefully before replying. “Sir, those of us who have lived and worked in the regions around Hudson Bay know that the Franklin Expedition was over-supplied and woefully under-equipped for the momentous task at hand. There were no skilled hunters aboard, nor had interpreters been hired. It seems that no one on either ship was trained in Arctic survival.”

  He placed his palms on the table between us. “Aye, from what I understand, that is true enough.”

  “In my opinion, the men’s lives were in peril the moment the ships reached the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. I gave the situation careful thought before making the decision to return to London. I came to the conclusion that if the authorities were to receive tangible evidence of cannibalism in the future, I would have been heavily criticized for hiding what I had learned from the Esquimaux at Pelly Bay and Repulse Bay. It was never my intention to make that tragic truth available to the public. And as you know, Sir, I have always had a tendency to report the facts as I see them.”

  “Or hear of them, from sources you trust.” He smiled. “Aye, you have been doing just that — in great detail — since we first met, my boy, and I admire you for it. We could always count on you for reliable information. Who can say if the Admiralty will learn a lesson from this tragedy? Somehow, I rather doubt it but I also can’t imagine them undertaking such a massive enterprise again.” He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. “Much too costly in lives and equipment.”

  I sighed. “I thought I was doing something useful. It never occurred to me that those in authority would set me up as the whipping boy for public resentment. I can be a bit naïve sometimes, I’ll admit.”

  “Both you and I are well aware that the British government is intent upon keeping up the front that the Royal Navy is indestructible, even when pitted against the forces of nature, my boy. Even when there are failures,” he added. He lifted his hand to his temple. “Rule Britannia!” he cried, with a mock salute. “We know better, but business is business, and they saw their venture as the holy grail of global enterprise. Let it all settle down. Great Britain is engaged in yet another war, and facing an ugly series of battles we will probably lose. The general public has other problems to think about right now. By the way, have you heard about the Asiatic cholera epidemic here in London? What a nasty affair. Take care of yourself, and remember that the Hudson’s Bay Company needs you more than ever in the Arctic.”

  “I am requesting a period of leave from my duties in the Arctic, Sir. My mother has had a stroke. I wish to book passage to Stromness aboard the Prince of Wales II, on the next date of departure.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear about Margaret. Of course, go home for a while to see her, get some rest and we will continue this discussion in the new year. The next sailing will be on November 3rd. Let’s speak to the clerk and make arrangements for you.”

  I was not surprised to hear that my pragmatic employer’s primary interest was in getting on with business. I understood his reasons for wanting the Company’s massive fur trade operations to continue without interruption, but the more I thought about the strain of attending to business at so many distant depots and offices, of constantly being on the move in harsh polar conditions while growing older, the less inclined I felt to continue my employment as a chief factor.

  I bade Sir George farewell and, as I left his office, a clerk handed me an envelope which had just been delivered, addressed to me. Who knew I was at Hudson Bay House that morning? The handwriting was unfamiliar and distinctively feminine. I tucked it into my pocket and proceeded on foot to the Royal Society for Improving Natural Knowledge at Somerset House on the Strand, of which I was a member in good standing. I hoped to find a quiet place in one of the reading rooms so I could read the letter and collect my thoughts in privacy. When I arrived at Somerset House Square, I was surprised to see a small crowd milling about the entrance to the Society. I had spent a good deal of time at the Royal Society when I was visiting London, so it should have occurred to me that someone would have anticipated my presence there, once the dreadful news began to spread around the city. I lowered my head and tipped my hat forward to conceal my face, glancing around for an alternative door to the building. I considered leaving the square, but to my chagrin, someone with paper and pencil in hand recognized me.

  “Doctor Rae! I should like to have a word with you! Why do you believe the stories of savages?” Heads turned and a dozen pairs of eyes were suddenly upon me. I inched towards the entrance, wishing I had shaved away more of my heavy beard so I would be less recognizable.

  “Over here, Doctor Rae! Why did you not stay in the Arctic and search for the bodies? Why did you come home so soon?”

  “What about the reward? Is that why you came home? Is it?”

  “I shall not answer that question, or any others at this — ”

  A large hand gripped my elbow. I was swiftly ushered up the steps and into the building, with the eager crowd close at heel. The bolting of a door muted the sound of excited voices. I was relieved to find myself suddenly inside the Royal Society offices, with a fellow Scotsman and member I recognized: Gerald McIntosh. The older man guided me up the staircase, past the portraits of scientists and explorers, and escorted me into an empty reading room. I put down my bag and stared at my unexpected saviour with gratitude. “Thank you, good sir, for rescuing me. I am most grateful.”

  “Not at all, Dr. Rae. I am quite certain that you would do the same for me, if I were being hounded by a mob of pesky journalists and curiosity seekers.”

  The spacious room was a welcome sight. It had the pleasant, familiar smell of wood and old books: hundreds of volumes filled shelves that soared upwards to the finely carved oak ceiling. Faded carpets, wooden desks and creaky floorboards suggested many years of purposeful use, whilst small groupings of polished leather armchairs lent an intimate air to the surroundings. I walked towards the window. The news that I was in the building must have been spreading, though, because in just a few short minutes, I could hear the crowd growing more vocal. I sank heavily into the soft seat of a chair and let out a long sigh. My legs were restless; I placed my hands on my knees in an attempt to settle them down.

  Gerald McIntosh, an avuncular, big-boned man with a generous helping of extra flesh on his body, slowly lowered his bulk into an armchair across from me and leaned forward. “Shall I order some tea for us, Doctor Rae?” I nodded. He rang for a servant.

  He was a well-respected mathematician and instructor at King’s College, a senior academic with a solid reputation, and a Scot. On this turbulent morning, he became more than an esteemed fellow member, he became a friend.

  “Gerald, I presume that you have read this morning’s news about the Franklin party in the papers?”

  “Aye, I have.” McIntosh nodded and leaned back in his chair, while reaching into his jacket pocket to retrieve a pipe, along with a packet of tobacco.

  “Do you have your pipe with you, John?”

  “I do not smoke.”

  �
�Ah, will you mind if I do, good doctor?”

  “Not at all.” A servant carrying a tea tray slipped silently into the room. “Cummins, please ensure that our privacy is strictly maintained while we are here.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  Gerald rose when the servant left, locked the door and sank back into his armchair. He tapped the stale contents of his pipe into a small dish on the table beside him, stuffed fresh tobacco into the polished wooden bowl, and tamped it down. He lit it slowly and drew the flame inward, until the burn was established. My breathing began to slow as I observed him performing these simple acts. I experienced a moment of melancholy, because his actions reminded me of my men in the Arctic, engaging in the same calm ritual around a blazing fire, their carved pipes in hand and our company’s presents of tobacco in the bowls.

  My new companion squinted at me through a haze of blue-grey smoke. “Aye, John. I am aware of your report. We do not know each other well, but I have admired your achievements as a scientist and Arctic expert for some time. I am sorry to see that all your years of good, sensible work have come to this… nonsense.” He waved a hand towards the window. Shouts could be heard, now, as the crowd grew more restless. Agitated, I approached the window again, stood to one side of it so no one would be able to see me, and peered out.

  “You are a practising physician, explorer, surveyor, manager and naturalist, am I correct?” he called out, trying to distract me from observing the activity in the square.

  “Aye.” I took a seat again.

  “And you are a Scot, an Orkneyman.” He continued. “Of course, I, too, am a Scot, but I am from the mainland, the Kincardineshire region. We mainland Scots are unique in our own right.” He chuckled and puffed on his pipe. “Our English neighbours fervently believe us to be half-savage hairy beasts, possessed of impulsive character and vastly limited brain function!